


A Solitary Petard

by rabidsamfan



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate version of story, Fisticuffs, Gen, soli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6645361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Watson went down to Farnham to investigate Miss Violet Smith's case about the strange solitary cyclist, he got hungry for a bite to eat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Solitary Petard

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Turn Left" challenge at Watson's Woes and originally posted [there.](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/825709.html)

_...It seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well known firm in Pall Mall._ There being a matter of some forty minutes until the next train to London, I betook myself to the local public-house in search of some light refreshment after my exertions.  
  
As I settled down to dine on an excellent shepherd’s pie, I considered what I had seen. As grotesque and bizarre as the case seemed to me, I could not summon any real sense of danger. That a man should follow a very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, but for that man to possess so little audacity that he dared not address her implied that he was not so very formidable an opponent. Particularly not for a woman as capable and determined as Miss Smith. The bearded man, whoever he might be, had proved incurably shy, fleeing from her approach even when he was unaware of any witness!  
  
The landlord of the public house, a small, bald, bow-legged fellow by the name of Saunders, stopped by my table to top up my glass of water, and it occurred to me that he must know most of the men in the locality. I asked him about men with black beards, and he gave me a list of several names, which I noted down in my book, along with such particulars as the garrulous fellow felt might interest me.   
  
“Do any of them live at Charlington Hall?” I asked, certain that Holmes would have asked the same.   
  
“Oh, no, sir,” Saunders said, polishing the pitcher in his hand unnecessarily. “The gentleman, if you can call him a gentleman, who has taken the Hall is a white-bearded man, and an older one at that. And his servants aren’t bearded at all, being either boys or women, and not many of either. A clergyman, rumor says, but no man of the cloth I’ve ever heard of has a mouth so foul as that Mr. Williamson. He had a dreadful argument with the greengrocer last Saturday just after his coffee didn’t come before his weekend guests.” The landlord proceeded to regale me with the details of that most unecclesiastical argument with no little relish, and would have gone on to another equally unsavoury incident concerning the blacksmith had I not diverted him from his gossip with a question as to whether any of Williamson’s weekend visitors had beards.  
  
“There might have been one or two,” Saunders opined, thoughtfully. “They’re a warm lot, all of them, and not all of them come every week, you see, so I may have missed a few. But here’s Mr. Woodley coming from the taproom. He visits Mr. Williamson most regular and he ought to know the man you’re looking for if he’s been at the Hall.”  
  
“Woodley?” I asked, recognizing the name from Miss Smith’s account, and turned in my chair to find that a young, red-mustached man with a bloated, puffy face and his hair slicked down to his head was descending upon my table. He slammed his tankard down beside my plate, sending beer over the top to splash down on my coat and trousers, and roared at me, asking who I was and what I meant by asking so many question in terms that sent Saunders scuttling away to the safety of his kitchen. With good reason, it proved, for Woodley gave me no time to answer his questions before sending me and my chair flying with a backhanded blow.  
  
It had been a good many years since I served in the Army, and longer yet since my days playing rugby at Blackheath, but old instincts die hard and I came quickly to my feet, bringing my right shoulder up from the ground to strike at the uncouth ruffian’s unprotected belly as I tackled him to the ground.   
  
The next few minutes were noisy and painful. Woodley’s methods were unscientific, but he had the advantage of me in youth and was unencumbered by the need to protect old injuries. It also became apparent that he had the advantage of me in endurance. My life, since Holmes’s return, had been far too sedentary, and I could feel myself growing out of breath all too quickly. On the other hand, I had the advantage of far more experience, and my reflexes had not been encumbered by alcohol. I also had a doctor’s knowledge of the human body’s weaker points. Woodley’s first blow against me had thrust the fight cleanly outside the framework of the Marquis of Queensbury rules. In an unfair fight, ruthlessness has its place. I had Woodley pinned against the floor, wailing his dismay at the pain of a dislocated shoulder, by the time the constable lumbered into the room.  
  
“Here, here,” said the constable. “What’s all this?”  
  
“This fellow struck me without provocation,” I said, between gasps for air. “I took objection.”  
  
***  
  
And that, my dear Holmes, is how I came to be composing this account for my memoirs in the dubious comforts of the Farnham village jail. Now, if you would kindly find a moment to come to Farnham and set my bail, rather than just wiring the money with an impertinent telegram, I would be most obliged. Saunders is willing to testify on my behalf concerning the fight itself, but Constable Lewis refuses to believe that I am telling the truth when I say that I am John H. Watson, and that I am investigating Charlington Hall on your behalf. He reads the _Strand_ , you see, and knows perfectly well that you went over that waterfall in Switzerland...


End file.
